Pawn
by TheDragonLover
Summary: "The school year of 1997 wasn't an experience any Hogwarts student would remember fondly—no matter which side of the war they supported." -Written for WriterVerse challenge on LJ. Rated T to be safe. More details inside.
1. Pawn

_This was written for a challenge in an LJ writing community I've recently joined called WriterVerse, and it was quite enjoyable. I recommend everyone going and looking for a community as such—you can even join the one I'm in! I won't bite! _

_(Unless I'm hungry. Dragons need to eat.)  
_

* * *

_Challenge #25—Scenario Prompt_

**Title**: Pawn  
**Word Count**: 1,337  
**Rating**: PG**  
****Pairings (if any)**: N/A  
**Warnings (Non-Con/Dub-Con etc)**: Mentions of wartime issues (torture via Cruciatus Curse, etc.)  
**Summary**: The school year of 1997 wasn't an experience any Hogwarts student would remember fondly—no matter which side of the war they supported.

* * *

The school year of 1997 wasn't an experience any Hogwarts student would remember fondly—no matter which side of the war they supported. It was filled with suspicious stares down the hallway, with heated whispers that died down whenever others got near. Even for those that had somehow remained neutral after all of the struggles and power plays, life was filled with dread and horror. If a student ever gave the impression that they supported one side over the other, they were immediately cornered by hostile groups and placed under the scrutiny of the professors and newly appointed Headmaster Snape.

The only thing safe to reveal was fear.

A fifth year found herself in the Hospital Wing for this very reason; clutching the thin sheets as if to hide the green-and-silver tie, she leaned over the edge of the bed to relieve what little of her dinner she had been able to swallow. Looking sick with terror as she trembled uncontrollably, she was reasonably skittish as Madam Pomfrey did her duty to calm her down. It took several hours for this to abate, but she was finally lying still when Draco Malfoy made his appearance.

Potions _clinking_ in his robes, the blond faced the mediwitch coming out of her office to meet him. New creases revealed just how strained her professional demeanor was, barely nodding her head when he pulled out the shrunken potion bottles for her stores. He noticed her eyeing the Head Boy badge pinned to his robes, likely calling him all sorts of unpleasant names in her head. No one believed he was deserving of the title—not even his fellow Slytherins. Camaraderie was dead, as far as his housemates were concerned.

Steeling his spine, he glanced at the lone student amongst the cots and faltered. Wide brown eyes stared at him for all of a second before they slammed shut, shoulders hunching slightly to hide herself further from his prying gaze. _Legilimency_ wasn't required to reveal just how terrified she was; he had seen it in the way she skittered around others in the hallways, kept her gaze focused on her plate during mealtimes. She rarely stayed in one place for long in what seemed to be an effort to keep from being caught by the more brutish Slytherins, who wanted to bully her into falling in line with the Dark Lord. Her and several other students had carefully kept out of the conflict, refusing to praise either the Death Eaters or the foolish students combating them.

But Draco knew where her true loyalties lied. Even if one ignored the fact that her mother was a Muggle, it was obvious that she deferred to the Carrows only out of fear. She had been forced to use the Cruciatus Curse on a first year in "detention" that day, and disgust and horror had flashed across her face before she could swallow it. This and other signs had been evident in various neutral parties, but none of them were brave enough to do anything about it. They stayed in the gray area they were allowed in the conflict, politely averting their eyes on some occasions and stumbling over curses on others.

Even he was employing less malice than many others would have in his position. He gave the proper respect to the Carrows and the Headmaster, but he didn't participate in the extracurricular activities suggested by the insane siblings. Shunned by most of the school populace and belittled by the rest, there was very little reason for him to strut about like the proud peacocks at Malfoy Manor. He felt a deeper kinship with the ghosts than with the Death Eaters he had joined the summer of his sixth year. He tried to ignore how disturbing the despicable actions of his housemates were to him, but part of him recoiled from the curses and the spitting. Something inside of him was fighting against this ideology he had grown into, that had colored his life since birth.

It was growing.

Taking this budding revolution and forcing it into a cramped box of denial, Draco grasped the last potion and strode across the room to stand beside the cot. The student looked so fragile, huddled underneath the sheet in a bid for sanctuary from the hellish nightmare of this school year. Had he ever been this small? He couldn't imagine going through the last few years as a child; it felt like he had matured far past his years in the last few months, and nothing would ever be the same.

He fingered the bottle, possibilities running through his head. What could he do? What choices did a pawn have in a war? Placing the potion on the bedside table, he realized there were very few.

"I know you're awake," he muttered hoarsely. She was preternaturally still, obviously trying to be as convincing as possible in her façade. He couldn't help rolling his eyes, wondering when the younger snakes had started taking after Potter's house in their abysmal acting skills. The gesture brought a little familiarity to the scene, imagining this girl had gotten into trouble with the Gryffindors and he was sent by his godfather to check up on her. Before reality bled back in, he could almost pretend he had earned his Head Boy badge.

Narrowed eyes focused on her face, his fingers slipped into his robes, grasping an item he had repeatedly burned and repaired for days. Having this sort of evidence on him was risky; if anyone decided to check his person, he'd have to pray that his Charms were enough to keep it hidden or he would be punished for hesitating to bring it to the Headmaster. Loyalty to the Dark Lord was earned through the betrayal of others, and he didn't want to find out what his godfather valued most. And yet, the item kept returning to his pocket.

Here was a choice many pawns didn't consider, too busy with their masters' orders to think beyond the immediate.

"This is a Dreamless Sleeping Draught," he explained to her even as his mind whirled with the consequences of the actions he could take. He could be discovered by the Carrows or power hungry students, or worse, by Snape; he could be accused of trickery and brought into a public declaration he wasn't prepared to make; he could go to all of this effort only for a tactical error to waste it; he could have it all horribly go awry and be guilty of destroying the only resistance to the Dark Lord's minions in Hogwarts. The possibilities swept over him like a Dementor, and he tried to determine what would make such dangers worth the trouble.

Wouldn't it be easier to simply leave it be, to let everything play out as it would without his interference?

"_This is a Dreamless Sleeping Draught," explained the Slytherin, his quiet voice still seeming to fill the eerie silence. "Take it when it gets to be too much."_

In the end, he didn't bother making a grand, dramatic gesture like his father would have. He didn't say another word to the snake. Instead, he reached out and gently dropped the evidence of his inner betrayal beside the bottle. The faintest crackle of crisp parchment revealed his disloyalty, and he could swear that the entire castle grew still to listen to its echoes. Chest tight, he turned and swept away, bracing himself for whatever followed as he wordlessly canceled the concealment Charms.

This was his ticket off of the board, out of the role of pawn and into something much more terrifying in its uncertainty: Freedom.

The girl didn't stir until the door had creaked closed behind him. Warily checking her surroundings, she threw her legs over the side of the cot and leaned over to grab the bottle—

Her hand hovered over the parchment, indecisive.

After what seemed like an eternity of holding her breath, she plucked the paper from the table and gently unfurled it, eyes skimming the neat handwriting upon it. Written as though someone had been wary of detection was the words "_seventh floor, Barnabas the Barmy, Longbottom_" in bright green ink.

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_As a side-note, the challenge was to write a scene with a character making a decision they hadn't before. This is obviously a fanfic, but the alternate-decision part of it is the fact that it's from ANOTHER fanfic I've been writing for a while now. The italicized text towards the end was what actually happened in the original fic-or part of what happened, anyway._

_Maybe one day, the original fanfic this was based off of will see the light of day. _

_...maybe._


	2. what will it be

**Title**: what will it be

**Prompt**: All the Brilliant Colors & "I can't go back to yesterday, because I was a different person then." (Lewis Carrol)

**Bonus? **Yes~

**Word Count**: 1526

**Rating**: G

**Original/Fandom**: Fandom: Harry Potter (parallel universe to And She Wondered); sequel to "Pawn"

**Pairings (if any)**: N/A

**Warnings (Non-Con, Dub-Con, etc)**: The ruining of all things British _a la American writer,_ OC-centric

**Summary**: As a Halfblood in Slytherin during the 1997 school year, she saw very few options—but when the time for neutrality was past, she found that her decision had already been made.

* * *

She still wasn't sure what she was doing.

Clutching the scrap of parchment that had become her last resort, Slytherin fifth year Megan Watson scurried away from the hallway for the second time, cursing herself as she stumbled into a suit of armor. _What am I doing? This is ridiculous! It's a trap set by the Death Eaters, they're waiting for you to mess up, it's only a matter of time before—_

Rounding a corner brought the point of a wand against her nose; she barely choked her scream as she collapsed against the stone wall, staring at the Gryffindor holding it defensively. She remembered him as the one to offer a handkerchief years ago when she was a first year, and the sudden contrast of his haggard features to that baby face had her ducking her head and breathing apologies. She had been wrestling with her conscience for days, methodically reading and then hiding the slip of paper that had been curled beside the Dreamless Sleeping Draught.

"_Seventh floor, Barnabas the Barmy, Longbottom_" it had read, ink shining a bright green as if fresh on the page. She had two of those requirements met, but she avoided Longbottom's gaze as she found herself unable to speak. Fear clogged her throat and crept through her veins. It was all she could feel nowadays, in these dark and sinister hallways that had once held so much light and joy. She could almost see all the brilliant colors of magic superimposed on the present, remembering playful jinxes even as she watched the students hunch their shoulders to be as inconspicuous as possible.

Heart in her throat, Megan carefully stepped around him, hands protectively cradling the parchment against her chest as she mentally chided her obliviousness. _If he was a little more hex-happy, you could have been in serious trouble!_ But before she could take more than a few steps, his voice called out, low and authoritative.

"Wait."

She froze, feeling much like a deer in headlights as her muscles tensed in preparation for either a skirmish or a sudden retreat. It was common knowledge that while he didn't instigate fights with students he wasn't at all a pushover, and she desperately hoped she hadn't offended him in some way. _More likely he's offended by my very existence,_ she thought bitterly. _Slytherins are the scourge of the school, after all._

It was safer to be unarmed before a Gryffindor; they were more likely to hesitate before attacking a disadvantaged opponent. _If only I could be so lucky._ Keeping her hands where they were, she slowly turned around, careful to keep her movements slow and her gaze on his feet. She was tired of seeing the disgusted looks on students' faces when her and her housemates entered the classroom or the Great Hall.

Instinct caused her to stiffen and edge away when he took a step forward, but his long legs easily made up for the distance. He stood within arm's length, something that had her mind screaming for her to hex him and make a run for it. Too afraid of his advanced magic—Merlin knew what he had learned in his previous six years of education—and too worn out from her indecisive pacing, the brunette swallowed and gathered what little courage a snake could afford. She pretended that the tears weren't already dribbling down her chin as she lifted it, finally meeting his eyes and holding them.

She didn't rejoice at his thoughtful expression; it was all the more terrifying that he wasn't showing outright disdain for her. _What is he planning? What's he going to do to me?_ Her hands shook, lightly crinkling the parchment in her hands.

There was a pause where she was afraid he was going to bind her and leave her there, but evidently he had other plans; eyes scanning the hallway behind her and then over his shoulder, he gave her a stern look that brooked her arguments as he told her to follow him.

What else could she do? _When unable to lead, follow._ Her skin prickled with anticipation of hostility, but his strides were measured as he approached the painting she had been avoiding. He paced a bit, which kept her quietly confused until a door appeared on the opposing wall, and then he was ushering her inside without a word. After he had secured the room and seated them on opposite chairs—it was similar to a common room other than the lack of color to denominate a house—he held out his hand with a level of patience a student his age shouldn't have.

There was nothing for it; she held out admirably for several minutes, but when it was obvious he wasn't letting her leave until he was satisfied she gave a shuddering breath and abruptly stuck her arm out. He twitched as if to go for his wand, but she merely uncurled her fingers to let the parchment flutter into his like an owl's loose feather. He examined it as she drew back into the chair, trying to sink into the cushions as if they would protect her from this Gryffindor. _What does he want from me?_

Longbottom glanced up from the parchment, and she jerkily shook her head. _I can't tell you,_ her sad eyes said. _Don't hurt me, please. I don't want any trouble._

He set the message down on the table between them and rested his elbows on his knees, hands clasped before him in a facsimile of safer times.

"What do you want from me?"

The echo of her previous thought stunned her, eyes wide and jaw slack. She blinked once, but his expression never wavered. He just kept staring at her, serious but calm. This was a breed of lion she hadn't seen before, and it scared her. _Who needs Harry Potter when _this_ is what's left at Hogwarts?_

Her head jerked slightly as she realized he was still waiting for an answer. _Want?_ She didn't want anything from him. She just wanted to go home—to get out of this war and return to a time when her family wasn't on the run and Hogwarts wasn't a prison. But life could never go backwards, not without seriously dangerous magic. Only forwards. _I can't go back to yesterday,_ she thought dejectedly, _because I was a different person then._ She had avoided looking too closely at her reflection because it was shattering to realize she wouldn't recognize herself.

Tears falling in earnest, Megan shook her head, voice cracking from disuse. "I—I don't—"

"Someone sent you here," he interrupted as she took another shaky breath. His eyes were trained on her, as if to gauge every facial muscle for evidence of a Dark plot. "It was either to help, or to harm. Which is it, Watson?" She was stunned by his recollection of her name. Did he remember that day, so long ago? He prodded, "What will it be?"

Was that really the goal? Her eyes dropped to the parchment, curled once more with lasting creases from her indelicate handling. _Did he really send me to get them in trouble?_ Bile rose at the thought, but somehow that didn't click right with the haunted demeanor of the young Malfoy. She didn't have the ability to ruin everything the Gryffindors and the other rebels had fought for—in fact, _he_ was in a better position to do so. So why gift her with the knowledge?

The older Slytherins were in a difficult situation. Most were expected to follow the Carrows' cruelty without hesitation and to join the ranks of the Dark Lord's followers within the year. It would be entirely impossible for them to revolt without immediate execution, so obvious displays of dissention were suicidal. If Malfoy was having second thoughts about his service to the Dark Lord, he wouldn't be able to alert anyone to his change in opinion with endangering his life.

Megan, not only a young Halfblood but a girl at that, had been very much beneath the radar of the recruiters, deemed as unsuitable for direct servitude. Several others her age and younger were being groomed for the Dark Lord's usage, but they weren't active participants in his plans. They weren't experienced enough for his tastes.

She furrowed her brows with sudden clarity, and she wondered if she was being guided to rebel in the stead of Malfoy.

In her heart of hearts, she knew that she could never join the Death Eaters or condone their beliefs or actions. She just hadn't expected to suddenly be pushed to stand up against them—a measly fifth year who had very little friends. She didn't know what she could offer the side of the Light, and she very much doubted they would trust her intentions. This didn't affect her decision in the slightest.

Lifting her chin that only wobbled a little, Megan Watson—a Slytherin fifth year that up until now had kept out of conflict—looked the Gryffindor in the eye and gave an answer she hoped her parents would live to be proud of.

"I want to help."

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_Lots of dragon-y love,  
-DL_


	3. I'm not brave

**Title:** I'm not brave

**Prompt:** Angst & "I have a theory that selflessness and bravery aren't all that different." (Veronica Roth)

**Bonus?** Yes~

**Word Count:** 1247

**Rating:** PG

**Original/Fandom:** Fandom: Harry Potter (And She Wondered parallel, sequel to "Pawn" and "what will it be")

**Pairings (if any):** N/A

**Warnings (Non-Con/Dub-Con etc):** The ruining of all things British a la American writer, OC-centric

**Summary:** Being a turncoat in the year 1997 is difficult, especially when you're a Halfblood Slytherin in your fifth year. It only gets worse when you introduce another Gryffindor into the mix.

* * *

It wasn't everyday that Megan found herself being dragged into Neville Longbottom's secret headquarters of rebellion—not even after she had essentially sworn her allegiance to his cause. But what really amazed her was the fact he had broken his promise to keep her involvement a secret; beside him on the coffee-colored couch sat a redhead she foggily recalled was a Weasley, and a Gryffindor to boot. The frightened look she cast Longbottom was deflected with a calm smile that didn't allay any of her fears.

"Watson, this is Ginny Weasley," he began introductions, and Slytherin grooming had her jutting out an arm to politely shake the redhead's hand before she could think twice. "She's trustworthy, before you start hyperventilating."

"Famous last words," she couldn't help muttering. Mortified by her comment, after earning the other girl's small glare, she ducked her head and let her hair hide her face from view. "You probably told her the same," she went on, already seeing herself in the doghouse. _Or the lion's den, to be more accurate._

"You've got that right, at least." The redhead was attempting to peer through the curtain of brown hair, as if looking for deceit in her expression. "How do I know that you're not trying to get us all killed?"

Even as Longbottom admonished her with a sharp "Ginny," the brunette took deep breaths to channel an inner cool. It was a technique she had begun practicing to weather the sinister and loathing looks she received in the halls from both sides of the conflict. Frost crackled in her lungs, and her chest creaked like thin ice beneath Thestral hooves. After she was sure of her composure, Megan lifted her gaze to look straight into a disapproving face. With a voice nearly monotone in its control, she answered, "It would be hypocritical of a Halfblood to wish for the death of people like me, my Muggle-loving father and my Muggle mother."

"None of that," the young man warned them both, looking fairly disappointed in their responses. But the Slytherin was used to this tradition of Hogwarts, where red and green clashed like fire and water to create a scalding steam that burned all who attempted to get involved. It was a statement of the human condition being well-trained to have enemies; conflict bred resistance, and resistance gave birth to evolution.

Instead of apologizing, Weasley stubbornly lifted her chin. Megan merely ducked her head once more.

After a pause, Longbottom sighed, running fingers through his hair. "That wasn't how I wanted this to start," he admitted, voice low with exasperation.

"Fine." Weasley's voice was sharp with a finality that spoke volumes of her trust in him, even though the echoes were still wary of the snake. "What have you learned so far?"

Taking another deep breath, Megan again drew from the frost. She fancied she could see her breath. "The Carrows patrol more often immediately following their detentions—" This had her swallowing bile as she remembered the last "punishment" she had had to dole out to a first year. "—as well as the beginning of the week. The Headmaster's are more sporadic, as if he's trying not to be predictable." Her tone grew bitter as the winter winds. "The paintings are more likely to try throwing things through the fourth wall than to help me with anything, at the moment."

She was a little disheartened that neither of the Purebloods got the joke. Still she soldiered on, despite the redhead's growing disbelief.

"But the ghosts are a bit more open to communication, and they're privy to things the paintings can't hear or see; the Bloody Baron has been around the dungeons enough to know I'm not brainwashed into the Junior Death Eater program. They didn't invite me to play any of their reindeer games," she snarked for her own benefit, as they were still baffled by her stranger phrases. "So the ghosts can go into the Hospital Wing or the center of the library—essentially anywhere else the paintings can't get to, other than this room. Peeves is just a pain in the ass, mostly."

Weasley snorted at that. "Surprise, surprise."

"Are the ghosts willing to pass along messages or cause havoc?" Longbottom's thoughts were already three steps ahead; anyone could see the cogs in his head whirling rapidly.

"The House ghosts all seem to be in agreement that the Dark Lord—" She tried to ignore how the redhead stiffened at the moniker. "—doesn't belong in Hogwarts. I don't know how capable they are of affecting the physical world, but they were willing to herd students away from the patrols. Peeves might be more helpful with the hell raising."

Megan wasn't sure whether the girl in front of her was annoyed or impressed by the information she had gathered. "How did you learn all of this?" Her tone accused her of deception. "I've hardly seen you in the halls and believe me, I've been keeping an eye on the Slytherins lurking about."

Brown hair shielded her from their gazes, but it was impossible to hide the small quiver of her shoulders. She was so _tired _of all of this sneaking, but the times that had been safest for secrecy were well past curfew. It was only when she caught glimpses of blond hair in the Slytherin Common Room that she could breathe a bit easier as she slipped out—on occasion, he had wordlessly cast a stronger Disillusionment Charm on her. She had had to rely on her paranoia to carry her through the castle without being caught, listening for eavesdroppers as she whispered hurriedly to walls and pale figures.

Unwilling to admit just how stressed she was or explain her methods, Megan merely responded with a soft, "What kind of snake would I be if you saw me?"

"We really do appreciate your help," Longbottom cut in before the conversation could devolve into another tangent of House prejudice. "It's pretty brave of a Slytherin to spy within a pit of snakes."

Immediately, Megan shook her head with an emphatic, "No." She paused to collect her thoughts carefully before elaborating. "It's not brave to slink around in the dark and give morsels of information behind closed doors. But _you've_ been walking through here with your head held high, marching on despite the insanity of the opposition. _You're_ the Gryffindor—the brave one."

As she had come to expect from Longbottom, he shook his head. "I'm not being brave," he argued back. "I just can't let You-Know-Who ruin the one place I've called home. I'm going to fight back tooth and nail, even if it ends up being the death of me."

"It's called "doing the right thing," " said Weasley.

The brunette pursed her lips, considering the two of them. Red-and-gold ties around their necks, they were the very portrait of Godric Gryffindor: Sitting with spines straight and jaws set in determination, eyes bright with fire despite the Dark surrounding them. Megan wasn't deluded enough to think she gave off such a powerful vibe; she could hardly sit without hunching over in the solitude of the loo. There was something inspiring about the passionate stand of a lion.

She lowered her gaze, too embarrassed of her own cowardice to look at them much longer. "They sound the same to me," she murmured to her hands clasped in her lap. "I have a theory that selflessness and bravery aren't all that different."

* * *

_Lots of dragon-y love,  
-DL_


End file.
